Observations from the front
by rednin
Summary: Did this for a school project. WWI through a minenwerfer's POV.


Wrote this for school so...I felt like putting this up~ Enjoy! 

Introduction

There have been many accounts of the Great War (commonly known now days as WWI). From soldiers on the battlefield to younger siblings on the home front, each story has its own side to the war and reveals different insights on the feelings and experiences of the people at the time.

In this account, these logs/diary entries are written from the point of an unfeeling machine, a German mortar (minenwerfer), with hope that a new point of view will give a better understanding of what war is - not only this war, but all wars.  
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LOG/DIARY#1

July 13 1915:

I was made in a German factory around the middle of this war. The factory had always been busy as I remember it. Since few to no men were working there, the women needed to work hard to get a man's job done in the same time. Their husbands had been drafted to fight in the war, where I will go shortly.

I was supposed to be 8/300 of my kind expected today. Instead, I am the 8/275. There was an unexpected explosion from one of the explosives being made, destroying part of the factory, halting production for the day.

I am a 7.58cm mortar, having shells weighing 15lb and having a firing distance of 5,800-11,700 yards.

My purpose, to kill. Destroy. Eliminate as many of the enemy as I can and any obstacles hindering the German soldiers such as the tangled mesh of barbed wire in front of the enemy trenches. Even though we have a drawback of having smaller shells (meaning the area of shrapnel distributed) is smaller, aiming mortars like me was more accurate and easier than with the larger artillery.

After the final steps in the factory, I am ready to go. I am loaded onto a train with the other 274 mortars to be on our way to the trenches.

The way there is fairly smooth. When we arrive, all of the supplies and weapons are promptly sent to their positions. The mortars are sent to replace ones damaged beyond repair and the surplus is set up in strategic locations in preparation for the next battle. After unloading, I meet my crew of soldiers that will be in charge of me. The crew consists of four men and what looks like one non-commissioned officer, all joking and laughing among each other. I decide that their attitude doesn't matter as long as they can operate me.

The men leave after inspecting me for any mechanical flaws. Apparently, the supplies came just in time for lunch and a break for the soldiers, "rest and recuperation". I can hear them in the background boasting about their last battle. One man says that he had gathered five tins of corn beef from the British.

While waiting for further instructions, I observe what I can see of the trenches from my position. The Artillery is placed in the back of the trenches, a position from which we can fire as closely and accurately at the enemy as possible, but still keep out of range of the enemy's guns. It is also a good position to see the layout of the trenches ahead.

In front of me, are reserve trenches. Then support trenches. The soldiers in these surge forward if the front line trench - the ones all the way near no man's land (the area between our trenches and the opposing side's trenches) - need back up.

I see machine guns mounted, waiting quietly, like me and all of the artillery, till the next attack. I wonder when that will be. Until then, there is nothing useful I can do but wait til' a shell is put into me and fired.

LOG/ DIARY#2

August 1915

There is battle. My first since I arrived.

The enemy launches the battle by bombarding our trenches with their artillery. I see no mortars among them. Shortly, my team comes. I am loaded with a shell and shot, making a "plop" sound. I watch as the opposing soldiers take cover, pulling their fellows down with them to avoid my deadly shrapnel. One of them doesn't make it. The soldier stumbles and falls, then there is no more movement. Only one of the many that will die today.

2036...

2046...

2050.

2050 shells fired now. Over time, I notice the mortar team aiming me in different ways. One way, it is described as air burst, is when a shell was loaded and fired into the air. The shrapnel falls down, hitting the soldiers from above. The other, impact fuse, is when I am loaded and fired straight on and the shell releases its shrapnel after it hits the ground.

It is evening and the battle rages on. I'm surprised that my crew can still hear each other; the noise of the guns is deafening

A whistle blows three times and I hear people yelling "over the top!" The soldiers in the trenches, our German trenches, climb up over the dirt walls and begin charging towards no mans land – and the enemy trenches. Even though we are on the offensive, I am still fired in order to keep the enemy soldiers from lifting their heads up to shoot at the approaching soldiers. Now it is the opposite side's artillery that has the chance to destroy the incoming soldiers.

One of the men on my mortar crew, a fair-haired soldier with bright blue eyes, aims me short of the intended target. This time, one of our side stumbles and falls, hit by our own guns. Another one of the soldiers curses at him "Koby, du Dummkopf!" Koby is immediately switched to another position on the team and the soldier who reprimanded Koby is now in charge of aiming.

The soldiers have come back, but the trenches seem emptier than before. I see two soldiers supporting a third as they made their way towards the field hospital. Others look forlornly at the battlefield where some of their comrades must have died. Out in no mans land come the groans and hisses from the injured, a few trying to drag themselves towards the hospital or one of the field medics.

There must have been strong resistance among the enemy. No matter, more will come to replace the fallen. That is how it is in war. Any rations obtained from the enemy trenches are quickly shared or hidden away from prying eyes and hands.

The fair-haired soldier, Koby, anxiously eyes the spot where his misfire went. Slowly, a stretcher emerges from the shell-hole. He cranes his neck to see who it is. Suddenly, he withdraws, sobbing, trying to fight the tears back. "Was ist los, Koby?" _What is the matter, Koby?_ One of the crew asks. "Ach! Mein bruder…Mein bruder…" _Ah! My brother…my brother…_ he sobs. The other man pats Koby on the back. His brother probably died from friendly fire. I cannot sympathize, for I cannot feel. His brother will be sent to a hospital or buried. That is all. I suppose, since death is common on the battlefield, it is hammered into the normal. Of course, it must be different if it happens to people close to you.

LOG/DIARY#3

September 1917

It is break for the soldiers again so I am silent. Watching the deadened trees sway in the crypt of what is left of no mans land. Before, there must have been meadows with new fresh trees welcoming the world with sunshine and growing with the rain.

Sometimes, at these moments, I wonder how the soldiers with their easily broken bodies and easily dampened minds can fight and survive though all these days….weeks….months….for some, even a year or more.

I hear my answer among the troops. It is repeated through speech, posters and the songs they sing "for the Fatherland". The father land, Germany. It is the reason for all these men and boys to put their lives on the line. I cannot understand these…feelings…I believe it can be described as nationalistic, that they have for their country. I was made for this same purpose, to defend the interests of the country, but I cannot feel the same way.

All the soldiers on the opposing side must feel for the countries they are fighting for also. They are all the same in this way. They want to protect what they have. The only difference between these people are patches of land and the uniform they wear.

…Thinking can get confusing at times. I see why the soldiers prefer not to talk about

things like this.

I hear shouts behind me and another voice joins the crowd of soldiers resting. The newcomer leans against my firm cool metal. From the greetings exchanged, I gain the information that the newcomer wasn't new at all. The soldier came back from a two week leave from the front. Beer was passed around and talk about home arose from the group.

The war affected all the people in "the Fatherland" whether on the frontlines or in the factories. People on the home front sent most, if not all, of their food to the soldiers, causing them to ration what meager stores they had to themselves. The returning soldier whispers to his comrades "I'm afraid that at home, they are running out of food and materials. And fast."

That is not a good sign. Will some of the artillery be useless if no more shells come in? Will we all eventually be forced to sit in our positions? Silent, motionless hunks of dead metal?

Analyzing the last few skirmishes and a long battle (did it take a month? Or two?) I notice fresh new soldiers bearing unfamiliar uniforms. They slowly filter in, joining the conflicts. I hear the term, "Americans" and "Doughboys" among my crew. I take it that another country is joining in this war. Unfortunately, it is on the enemy side. This may cause some problems for us, seeing that the enemy has another source of manpower and supplies. Those are worries for the soldiers though. My only worry for the moment, and probably most of the artillery guns too, is that I will become useless and be unable to function.

LOG/DIARY#4 October 1918

I believe we are going into battle in a few minutes. The troops are less cheery and excited than when I first came. War has worn them down. The battles are becoming more intense with fewer pauses in between. I remember thinking at first that their attitude meant nothing. Now I realize that these soldiers need to be in good condition not only physically but mentally to have the will to continue fighting.

I am not located in the same position as before, since the crew was spotted by the enemy during the last battle we had and we were fired heavily upon. I can see that they are slowly wearing down. I myself am in good condition except for a few small dents where shrapnel scathed the side and one bullet hole.

Both the soldiers and arms have little time for our thoughts. I only have the mindless sense to fire shells, the soldiers have no time to think. Only to kill, or be killed.

The signal to get back in the trenches echoes around. It's time for the soldiers to get back into the trenches again. They trudge to their positions; only another battle, one more till it's over. Just one more…

LOG/DIARY#5 November 1918

There is rarely any laughter among the soldiers now. Food rationing has become less frequent and sometimes there are scrabbles over bits of any food found. During the almost non-existent breaks between battles I can hear the groans and moaning of soldiers that are what soldiers call "shell shocked". They have gone mad from the noise and intensity of the bombings. I see a soldier glance with glazed over eyes towards the noises. His face looks like he has been through many experiences making him seem old, even though he is around sixteen, still the age to be in school.

The soldiers talk amongst themselves. All they want is for the war to be over. Some of them have even told of men killing themselves. The soldiers who end their lives seem to have seen enough of all this death and destruction that they can't take it anymore. They probably feel like it's worthless to keep on going over the top to keep on firing at the so-called enemy, to keep on living through this crimson haze of monotonous gore. Day after day after week after month of the same thing. Killing or being killed.

The next battle is here and one of the men on my crew is missing; he is either wounded or dead or has deserted his post. This does not stop the battle from starting. Another soldier eventually comes and replaces the missing soldier.

560,834….

560,900…

I keep on firing my shells, and the soldiers keep on coming. Like ants, the enemy is squashed under the giant foot of artillery and yet like ants, they seem to have no end, they keep on coming. I am starting to detect that a final decision will be made and the war will be over soon.

LOG/DIARY#6 November 11 1918

My mortar crew is gone and soldiers with unfamiliar uniforms stand around and inspect me. Foreign tongues are spoken and unfamiliar hands inspect my inner workings. One of the uniforms move and get a glimpse and see my crew again, with what looks like the rest of the German soldiers, surrounded. Then I know. The war is over.


End file.
